


Seven Kisses for Seven Siblings

by semaphoredrivethru



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, F/M, French Kissing, Het, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Schmoop, Slash, Snogging, Underage Kissing, Weasleys are awesome, boys kissing girls, implied twincest if you squint, tonsil hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-30
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphoredrivethru/pseuds/semaphoredrivethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin. Six 1,000-word snogging stories, connected only by the Weasley name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Kaalee's french Kiss Challenge, originally posted to LJ on April 30, 2006.
> 
> Beta by Juice817.

The first time I kissed Fleur, we were standing in a lift at the bank, on our way back up to the surface after a long day at work. She looked tired, faded, as though she weren’t meant to be behind a desk, even part time. Feeling like a fool for thinking that way, I just grinned and forced myself to look at the whorls in the wood panelling of the small box. Lifting my hand, I touched the wall and found that it was nothing more than a façade.

Fleur turned to me, flicking her long, shimmering hair over her shoulder as she smiled. “What eez zo funny, Weelyam?” she asked me in that throaty voice of hers. God, I just love her voice; it makes me think of the sorts of things that I didn’t know then she really would do for someone she loves.

“Nothing.” I shook my head and tried not to stare, but it was a losing battle. How could fake wood compete with Fleur? So I finally did look at her, only to see that she was giving me this small, knowing look.

“Nothing?” she asked, deliberately pronouncing the word. “I sink no, Weelyam. I sink zat you find somesing funny.” She stepped closer to me then. “’ave I somesing on my face, Weelyam?”

I swear, that bloody lift got smaller when she stepped closer. It was like I had nowhere to go, no room to move except to lift my hand and brush my fingers over her cheek. God, her skin is so soft, so smooth and she doesn’t use all that gunk so many girls do. Just some lotion most days, really.

“No,” I said. “Your face is perfect, Fleur.”

She smiled and stepped closer. “Eez zere somesink else, Weelyam?”

The thing I’ve come to love most about working for the Goblins is that they adore putting their employees far underground, with only the lifts or those mad trains to get you back up to the surface. Long, uninterrupted lift rides that are just private enough you can forget that there’s more likely than not someone spying on you to write down every last one of your fidgets, to see if you behave oddly. I used to hate it, especially right after I came back from Egypt, but it was that day in the lift with Fleur, when she kept saying my name over and over in that gorgeous, throaty purr of a voice, that I truly began to appreciate it.

“It’s only that…” I swallowed, realising just how close she was, how I was stooping to get closer, my hand already playing with her hair. But she didn’t seem to mind. “I just wanted to…”

Then I gave up on words and kissed her. My breath (thankfully) fresh from the mint tea I’d drunk just before leaving my desk, I hovered over her, touching and pulling back and touching again. Her breath caught when my tongue touched those full, strawberry-flavoured lips of hers, her mouth opening and her tongue coming out to meet mine.

“Weelyam,” she sighed. I groaned softly; I’d wanted to taste her from the moment we met. She tilted her head up and sucked on my lower lip briefly, that gloss sliding and slicking along the inside of my lip while her sharp little teeth nipped at me. At some point, my hands came up and I was cradling her head, so careful, so afraid I’d damage her.

Then her small arms were around my waist, pulling me closer. I couldn’t help myself any more, couldn’t resist what she was offering. I pulled back enough to free my lip from her mouth, and then kissed her properly, my tongue sliding between the smudged gloss of her lips, between her teeth, coaxing her out to join me. I stroked her, worshiped her, tasted her, drew soft, helpless sounds from her.

And that was when I knew I had her, that if this had been a game, then it wasn’t any more. My hands slid down to hold her properly and I turned us around, pressing her against that ruddy fake wood wall, lifting her slightly until she straddled one of my legs. One of her hands dug into my hair, the other one yanking out the tie holding it back and I moved my leg, feeling her hot centre even through all the layers of our robes as we kept on kissing. Small grunts and moans came from both of us, a cycle back and forth as she pressed against me, those perfect, handful-sized breasts warm against my chest. I groaned and let my hands move a bit lower, almost to her backside that I so loved to watch as she walked through the halls.

The lift slowed, almost to the lobby level of the bank. Cursing softly, I backed away slowly, kissing her soft, delicious lips again and again even as I lowered her to the floor. She chuckled, a low, groin-tingling sound, and sucked on my lower lip once more before offering my hair tie back again. When I took it, she combed her fingers through her hair, those blue eyes speculative while I fixed my own hair. She smiled and I couldn’t help but smile back.

When the lift doors opened again, Fleur stood up on her perfect toes and kissed my cheek. “I will see you for dinner tonight?” she asked. “Zo you can ’elp me eemprove my Eeenglish, _oui_?”

“Oui,” I said, nodded and licked my lips, tasting strawberry gloss.

I heard an annoyed sound and looked down to see a Goblin waiting at the lift doors. “Going back down again?” he asked in a voice that made it clear he knew what we’d been up to, and dearly wished we hadn’t clocked out below so he could reprimand us.

“No,” I said, stepping out of the lift, watching Fleur walk away with that lovely swish of hers. “Things can only be looking up.”


	2. Percy

“Percy, if we stare at these books any longer, I swear I’ll go blind.”

Percy lifts his head and blinks at me, owlish and confused as to why I would need a break. “It’s been six hours since I’ve done so much as have a stretch, my bladder’s overflowing and your daughter’s using it as a punching bag,” I explain, pointing down at my swollen abdomen. “I need to take a few and blink at least.”

“Oh.” He flushes, something he always did when reminded of the real world versus his books. Even to this day, I find it so very adorable. “I’ll fix some tea, then,” he offers. “You go ahead and…” He flushes again.

There really are days that I wonder how I managed to get him naked long enough to get me pregnant.

I stand, my balance still good despite having to waddle most places I go these days. Mum never warned me about that; she mentioned the morning sickness, the aching back, the strange cravings… but never the part where I would walk like a hippocampus going for a stroll down the street. But it’s all right with me, because she also didn’t tell me about how it would feel the very first time my baby kicked, as though to say “Hullo there, Mum. Hullo, Dad.”

Either way, I answer the call of nature – a complicated procedure these days, but then again it seems like everything is any more – and by the time I make my slow careful way back, Percy’s just starting to pour the tea. He’s so careful as he holds the lid on the tea pot, pouring my favourite black tea into a pair of slightly chipped cups for us. I wait until he sits back down in his chair – one that fortunately doesn’t have arms on it – and then I carefully perch myself on his lap, sliding his glasses off and setting them on the table with a sigh.

“How’s your back?” he asks, already massaging the base of my spine with one talented hand. I know his fingers are ink-stained and the tips calloused from gripping the quill so tightly, but when he works on those stubborn knots of mine, he’s as careful and gentle as any expert, releasing my tension with each touch. I shouldn’t be working such long hours any more and I know they only reason I got away with it this time was because I distracted Percy with a book. Of course, now I’m regretting it, but not nearly as much as I ought to; how can I, when I’m curled up with the love of my life like this?

“Mmm,” I say, tucking my face against his neck. “Hurts like a bloody bitch.”

“Penny!”

I laugh. He’s always so scandalised when I swear. “She can’t understand us yet, Percy,” I remind him. He looks doubtful.

“I’d still rather…” he says, forehead crinkling and eyes narrowing.

“And I’d rather you just snog me and make me forget about how much more water I’ve retained this week,” I interrupt, holding my face right in front of his, our noses a hair’s breadth apart and my face set stubbornly. I may have been sorted into Ravenclaw back in school, but Mum was a Gryffindor and I’m just as stubborn.

“Penny, I really think…”

“You think too much, Percy.” He does, really, and normally I think that’s cute. But tonight, I just want him to hold me and kiss me. Honestly, is that so much to ask?

He shakes his head, expression softening. “I suppose I do,” he murmurs, and then kisses me. It’s a soft, gentle kiss, and it’s not nearly what I want, but I know better than to push now. Not with words, at any rate. Instead, I just open my mouth and lick at his lips, knowing it reminds him of all the things I’ve done to him with my tongue before.

With a sigh, he opens up his mouth and kisses me properly. Hot, sucking kisses that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I suck on his tongue, pulling it into my mouth, sliding my tongue back and forth, stroking him. It’s a wicked and unfair thing to do, I know, but it’s worth it when I feel one of his hands carefully cupping one of my swollen breasts. Every nerve there is hyper-sensitive and I moan into Percy’s mouth, leaning into the kiss and clinging to him with one hand on his shoulder and another at his waist.

My mouth is open and welcoming and he keeps on kissing me, tongue dipping in and out, reminding me of how surprisingly good he was the first time we made love after getting back together after the war. As usual, I melt into his arms, willing to do anything to stay there, to keep kissing him, to bathe in this hidden, sexual aspect of my man. When he feels me relax into his arms, Percy pulls me closer and kisses a bit harder, losing himself and squeezing my breast a bit too hard.

“Ow,” I mutter, pushing at his hand. “Easy there, darling. It’s attached.”

He groans softly and lets go, breaking off our kiss and just holding me close for a moment. I can feel him breathing deeply, trying to pull himself back together and I feel badly for us both; if I can hardly pee on my own, I certainly can’t make love, now can I? With an apologetic smile, I kiss his neck, his cheek.

“We’ll finish this later,” I promise.

“In a couple of months,” he adds, voice a touch despondent.

I smile again and hold his face between my hands as I kiss him slowly, lovingly. I really do love this man and I know how very lucky we are to have lived through all we have and still managed back together again. “It’s a date,” I agree, snuggling against him. The tea can wait.


	3. Fred and George

When Fred plucked on Lee’s sleeve as he walked by in the hall, he didn’t even turn to look. Instead, he just sort of melted back into the crowd, slipping into the nearest broom closet. It was dark in there, as well as cramped with three solidly-built teenage bodies, but they were all used to living in each other’s back pockets after all this time, anyhow.

“What is it?” Lee asked, unable to keep the anticipation out of his voice. So far this year, Fred and George had pulled some brilliant pranks on that horrible old bat, Umbridge, and Lee knew without even asking that there was something else in the works now. He grinned in the dim light as Fred and George looked at each other like they did whenever they had a secret to share. Oh, this was going to be _good_.

“We’re done with this place,” George said.

“Done?” Lee blinked.

“Done.” Fred nodded. “Finished. Gotten as much of an education as we so desire. Not choosing to overstay our welcome within these hallowed halls.”

“Oh.” A hollow pit opened up in Lee’s stomach and he wondered why that was. No, strike that, he knew precisely why. He just would take that answer with him to his grave before he breathed a word of it to anyone.

George looked at Fred again, and then somehow managed to get closer to Lee. Lee shifted, uncomfortable all of a sudden, but there was nowhere to go to, especially since Fred was on his other side.

“Thing is,” George said, voice low. “Thing is, we want you to come with. We know your mum would have kittens, though…”

“So we wanted to tell you that there’ll be a spot for you after you finish here,” Fred went on. “We’ve even found a place with room enough for three, if you want.”

George moved closer, pressing against Lee, who wanted to die from embarrassment when George gave him a knowing grin. “I think he does want, Fred,” he said casually.

“Does he, George?”

“I believe so, Fred.” George worked a hand between them and cupped Lee through his trousers. “In fact, I’d say he wants Fred _and_ George.”

“I… I…” Lee stammered, eyes wide.

“It’s okay,” Fred breathed in his ear while George nosed at the other one, humming in agreement. “More than okay, even.”

“Okay?” Lee’s eyes shut in mortification when his voice cracked, but no one said anything about that, thank goodness. Instead, he just felt Fred nod, and then they were moving about in the darkness, shifting to face each other.

“Yeah,” George murmured, kissing the corner of Lee’s mouth.

“S’okay,” Fred murmured at the same time, kissing the other corner.

Lee’s mind fizzled and shut down, his mouth hanging open on a soft whimper and an even softer, “Fucking _hell_.” The twins, never the kind to let a perfectly good opportunity pass by, both licked at the part between Lee’s lips at the same time, their tongues meeting and duelling _right there_ and Lee couldn’t help but groan when they didn’t pull away from each other and moaned instead.

Instinct and hormones kicked in soon enough, though, and Lee joined them, tentative at first because they kissed just like they did everything else; with complete abandon. But then one of them bit the tip of his tongue and the other kissed down his throat and Lee completely forgot about taking things with caution. Instead, he angled his face to better kiss Fred, arching his neck to give George more room. Someone moaned and someone else groaned in response, but Lee didn’t care who, since he was sure the whimpering was him. Fred was nipping at his tongue and George was sucking at his neck and Lee had never been harder in all of his life.

And then they switched places, George taking over Lee’s mouth and Fred biting at his throat. George slanted their mouths together, sucking and sliding and messy while Fred bit so hard only Lee’s dark skin would hide the marks. George liked to keep his mouth open, to dip into Lee’s mouth and back away again, so Lee took advantage of that opening, chasing after George’s tongue, sliding into his mouth and tasting what might have been the raw ingredients for a Canary Cream. Lee groaned, body taut as a bowstring and caught between the hot, solid bodies of his best friends.

He lifted both hands, cupping both of their necks, pulling Fred up again for another shared kiss, all three of their tongues tangling equally. Giddy, Lee noticed that they tasted different, Fred and George, but blended together nicely. If he weren’t having so much more fun like this, he might suggest adding more chocolate to their Canary Cream recipe.

A hand slid down his chest, slow and purposeful, not that Lee paid it much mind as he blindly sucked on whoever’s tongue it was that he had in his mouth. The hand squeezed him through his trousers and he cried out, bucking into the touch, the sound muffled by a mouth. The hand pulled away quickly, and Lee whimpered in loss.

“Shh…” Fred crooned. “Can’t have you bringing to castle down around us, now can we?”

“No, we can’t,” George agreed, pulling back and letting Lee drag in lungsful of air as he shook in their arms. “In fact, we’d probably be better to do this somewhere else, later on, when half the school isn’t on the other side of the door.”

“When? Where?” Lee whimpered, knowing he sounded pathetic, but really not caring, because _bloody hell_ but that had been brilliant.

Fred looked and George and George looked at Fred, the twin smiles on their faces making Lee shiver again. “You’ll see,” George said.

Fred nodded. “Just wait for our signal.”

Lee rolled his eyes at them. “You two and your bloody cloak-and-dagger rubbish,” he said with a wicked grin. “So what are you doing for your big finale?”


	4. Charlie

The key to surviving the winter in the mountains of Romania is to get warm and stay warm. It’s not as easy as it sounds when you’ve got nothing but a small fire and a pile of blankets and you’re not supposed to use any magic this close to the dragons, but Charlie has found it’s much easier during Puddlemere’s winter break, because then he has an extra 37-degree space heater in his small hut.

Oliver’s always been big on cuddling, Charlie knows, even when they were just friends that got together after a game now and then. He just likes to curl up and not move for a long while afterwards, just basking and relaxing, sometimes moving his legs up and down along Charlie’s in a slow caress that has less to do with wanting to make love again, and more to do with just enjoying the feel of skin on skin. It’s soothing and on more than one occasion, Charlie has actually fallen asleep, still inside of Oliver, tangled on the bed and cuddling with him.

He fell asleep like that just last night, in fact, but when he wakes up this morning, he’s slipped out and now has Oliver curled against his side, clinging in his sleep and so very warm in their little nest of blankets. With a smile, Charlie eases out of Oliver’s grip enough to move down and kiss his lips with the lightest of touches, wanting to just kiss him for now and worry about waking him later.

Again and again, Charlie kisses Oliver, his mouth dancing back and forth over the familiar and sleep slackened curve of his lips. He fancies that he can taste some of the whiskey they drank last night before bed, some of his seed from what they did once they finally did make it to bed, mingling together with the distinct taste of Oliver. With a soft sound, Charlie slides his tongue out and licks slowly over Oliver’s lips, collecting every last drop of taste on his eager tongue.

Oliver shifts and mumbles something, waking up far sooner than Charlie would have liked, so Charlie pulls back reluctantly. He doesn’t bother to stop the pout on his face, though, as he kisses the tip of Oliver’s nose.

“Morning, Ollie,” he says in a sleep-rough voice.

“Mornin’, yerself,” Oliver grumps, his brogue more pronounced first thing in the morning than any other time of the day. “Startin’ withou’ me again, are ye? I keep sayin’, Charlie, if yer horny in the mornin’, yer welcome to actually wake me up afore puttin’ the moves on me.”

Charlie laughs at that and kisses Oliver’s sulking mouth soundly. “So you’ve said,” he murmurs, nosing his way around Oliver’s stubbled jaw to his ear, nuzzling him happily. “But what about when all I want is to snog you because I love the way your lips feel under mine?”

Oliver blinks at that, as though it’s far too early in the morning to be dealing with Charlie’s brand of logic. And it really is, but he’s been slowly but surely getting used to it over time, so he manages to just shrug it off as he stretches, shoulders and neck popping. When he’s done, he grins up at Charlie, who looks vaguely horrified at all the noises.

“That can’t be good for you,” Charlie says, shaking his head. “Don’t you have a team physiwitch to tell you not to do that?”

“We do,” Oliver says, looking smug. “But she’s in England and I’m in Romania. And I know you’ve got a different sort of physical exam method than she does. Certainly more fun.”

“True,” Charlie says. He leans in and kisses Oliver slowly. “For your workout today, we’ll work on the face muscles.”

“Mmm… so I can keep a straight face even when I know the other team’s about to get clobbered?”

“Sure. Sounds good to me.”

Oliver laughs at that, winding his arms around Charlie’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss, their tongues meeting in the space between them, touching and pulling back and touching again until they slide together slowly. Charlie makes a low noise in his chest, a playful half-growl and moves between Oliver’s legs, fitting their bodies together perfectly, smoothly, just like always. Their kiss deepens and Charlie’s mouth properly covers Oliver’s, possessing him and tasting him, making him moan softly. When he pulls back to attack another point, Oliver snaps at his chin, his teeth sliding instead of digging and Charlie’s eyes light up with amusement.

Diving back in, Charlie detours long enough to bite on Oliver’s lower lip, his tongue soothing the hurt in his wake, and then he plunges back into Oliver’s mouth, into those kisses that Charlie knows and has told Oliver he’ll never, ever get enough of. Oliver makes this wonderful sound in his chest, half moan and all enticing as he hooks his leg around one of Charlie’s. Sucking on his tongue, Oliver arches up against him, kissing back with everything inside of him, with his entire body, because _god_ he loves to wake up this way. Firm, skilful kisses that make him crave a lifetime full of this.

“Charlie!” Someone pounds at the door, startling them both. “Charlie, get yer freckled arse out here! She’s tryin’ ta hatch ‘em early!”

Charlie groans and buries his face against Oliver’s neck. Patting his back, Oliver grins but manages not to laugh at Charlie’s plight. “Go on then, love,” he says, voice suspiciously light. “We can finish this later.”

With a growl, Charlie rolls out of bed and grabs his jeans and jumper in one hand, dressing quickly. Early hatching is bad, very bad. Almost as bad as things will be if this turns out to be a false alarm, he thinks as he looks back to Oliver, sprawled out in bed.

“Be back late,” he says.

“I’ll wait,” Oliver promises, and then laughs. “Now, _go_. Before they come in to get you."


	5. Ginny

Sweat ran in rivulets down her spine, soaking the criss-crossing ties of her top, the exposed skin of her lower back glistening as she moved. Eyes closed, neck arched, arms stretched up above her head, she moved, pulse pounding and chest heaving, her legs burning in complaint. But there was no way she was stopping now, not when the world was narrowed down to just this one moment, this one place that she occupied in a state of dervish-like bliss.

The beat of the music slammed through her, her body moving in time, her consciousness and her own hypnotic sway drowning in the sound. She had forgotten who she was, what she fought for, what she dreamt of. And that was exactly why she was here; to forget. To be someone other than herself for a few hours, while she danced and drank and teased the boys, thoughts of battles and war wounds far away; images of her brother’s scarred face, another empty seat at the family table – one that would never be filled again, not even by all the absolution in the world. A black dress that she’d worn far too often of late, well-meaning friends reminding her that she could mourn _later_ , the way the one person she needed more than anything else refused to look at her, to treat her the way she wanted, the way she knew would somehow make it easier to accept it all, because if one good thing could exist among all this death and destruction, then maybe there was hope after all…

Ginny shook her head as the song ended and made her determined way to the bar. If she couldn’t exhaust herself into forgetting, then alcohol would have to do. She waved vaguely at the top shelf liquors behind the bar, not really caring what she got, not so long as it was strong. The bartender set something in front of her, a transparent drink that changed colours in the strobe lights as they changed with the beat of the music that still pounded along with her heart. Ginny snatched up the glass and tilted her head back, drinking it down quickly, the alcohol hitting her stomach with a brutal thump. When the bartender offered a glass of plain water as a chaser, Ginny merely shook her head and turned back to the dance floor; maybe, if she got lucky, she’d drop dead of dehydration here, the only place where she was free to forget.

Back on the dance floor, Ginny started dancing again, hands above her head, pale skin glowing in the light, the faint dusting of glitter that was the only makeup on her face shimmering. A warm, solid chest pressed against her back, and a confident hand slid around her waist, pressing against her belly, guiding her to move in time with her impromptu partner. She went with it for the time being, allowing herself to enjoy belonging to this dance, knowing it wouldn’t leave the floor. He was nearly the same height as she, just right to push her thick hair out of the way and kiss softly at her neck, lips sliding and tongue tasting the salt of her sweat.

Ginny moaned softly and tilted her head to the side, this stranger’s touch undoing her, his hand on her stomach electrifying. Deciding that she should give as good as she got and then better, just like she had always tried to all of her life with her friends, her brothers, she turned in the man’s arms and looped her arms about his shoulders, her eyes closed. She moved to the beat of the music and kissed up his neck, lips caressing the fluttering, hammering beat of his pulse.

His breath caught, a loud sound in her ear even over the music, and then he turned his head, catching her mouth with his, lips to lips, his tongue licking even as he pulled back. Ginny’s mouth dropped open in invitation, her tongue touching his, as they stroked and thrust and sucked. Upbeat, downbeat, upbeat, downbeat, the bass line of the music driving their hips, their hands their mouths; her hands tangled in his thick hair, damp from sweat and she let herself pretend that this was the one she wanted, the one she dreamed about.

Melting further in his arms, Ginny let him trace the insides of her lips, learning the contours of her mouth, her teeth. And then she closed around his tongue, making a snug, wet channel with her lips, letting him plunge in and out as his hands moved lower, yanked her closer, pressed their groins together until she could feel the length of him, as eager as his tongue. She sucked and danced and tasted, moaning softly, neck arching as the kiss broke off and he moved down the smooth, freckled column of her throat a kiss at a time. Her mouth was still open, words of consent about to burst forth even though she rarely said them; she was lost to the fantasy, to the dream of who she wanted this to be.

And then there was dark silence. The song ended and the lights went out for a few beats, leaving the patrons hanging in anticipation until the next beat began and the lights started a new dance. But it was enough to jar Ginny into opening her eyes, to see the man in her arms, the pale brown hair, the blue eyes, the clefted chin. He was handsome, confident; he wanted her. He wasn’t _him_.

Ginny pulled away and shook her head, leaving the dance floor, leaving the club and the man, but still taking with her a strange and irrational feelings of guilt. Thoughts, dreams and memories of the only one she’d loved since girlhood chased her down, leaving her oblivious to the emerald green eyes behind thick glasses, weighted down by sadness that followed her from the shadows as she left, face burning with frustration and confused shame.


	6. Ron

When Ron broke up with me, he told me that he couldn’t be what I needed him to be. I remembered thinking that was an odd thing for him to say, more introspective than usual, especially for a teenaged boy and even more so for _Ron_.

Because, honestly, even after dating him for several months, I still held fast to my emotional range of a teaspoon theory. Every time we’d kissed, there had been something missing. Oh, he’d tried to get up my skirt and under my blouse and I’d even let him now and then, but even when he was panting and shaking and looking at me with those lovely blue eyes, there was something not there, as though we were missing something. He tried to get me to sleep with him once or twice, almost desperately, but I said no. Somehow, I knew that wouldn’t save us.

But it still hurt when he broke up with me. It shouldn’t have, considering how distant he’d been for the past couple of weeks, the softly pitying looks I was getting in the halls as though people knew something I didn’t, the way Ernie Macmillan kept asking me what I had planned for the next Hogsmeade weekend. I guess it just goes to show that even the smartest people can be completely oblivious to the patently obvious.

Then again, hindsight is always 20/20.

So he broke up with me. And I cried for a good day and a half, a perfect pity party that let me bond with Lavender in a strange sisterhood of misery.

Anyway, I somehow got it into my head that Ron had broken up with me because I wouldn’t have sex with him. He’d been pushing for it and I’d just told him no every time. I wasn’t ready, I told him. I wasn’t ready and I didn’t think he really was, either. I decided that I was going to confront him. Force him to talk about this.

Get him back, if I could. Because Ron was my friend, Harry was my friend and I didn’t know if I could take another day of Lavender’s beauty tips when the world and my heart were both at stake. After all, if Ron and I weren’t talking, how would we be able to help Harry? The best we could do would be to fix this, to move on and to pretend it had never happened.

This was, of course, much easier said than done. Because pinning Ron down when he doesn’t want to talk to you is like trying to herd cats; an awful lot of work for something that ultimately is a waste of time. Eventually, I resolved to just follow him until I could get a clear shot and hex him solid and make him listen.

I got my chance one evening, about a week and a half after he broke up with me. I saw him looking around furtively before sneaking off while everyone else was lying about after dinner, stuffed full and relaxed, looking forward to the weekend. When he slipped off, so did I, always staying one corner behind, always careful. I just needed to get him to a safe spot, and then I would be able to make my move…

When he turned into the open door of an abandoned classroom and didn’t latch it behind him, I gripped my wand, spelled the hinges silent as I followed. But when I pushed the door open, I stopped, frozen to the spot by what I saw.

There was my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, I faintly remembered – kissing someone else. And not just anyone else, but _another boy_. When he’d told me that he couldn’t be what I needed him to be, I thought he meant the vague, romantic concept of Prince Charming that so many girls seemed to carry with them. I hadn’t realised, not until that moment when I saw him devouring Terry Boot’s mouth, that he had meant it in a much more basic sense.

Whenever Ron had kissed me before, he had held me so carefully, even when he slobbered a bit, got a bit too excited, tried to go too far. He had always been so gentle, so careful. But he wasn’t like that now and my stomach clenched in unwilling arousal at the deep, guttural moan that Terry gave when Ron cupped his backside and squeezed, chewed on his lower lip and then bit his neck, hard, right over the faint remains of a bruise that I’d heard a couple of girls commenting on nearly two weeks earlier.

So. This had been going on a while, then.

I stood up straight, intending to declare myself and to confront the pair of them, but then they spun around, in profile to me, eyes closed and hands grabbing desperately, their tongues tangled as though there was no way they’d ever, ever taste enough of each other. And that moment was when my broken heart and my battered pride suddenly stopped aching and I stood there watching them kiss in a way that I finally understood Ron could never have kissed me and that I’d probably never have wanted him to, anyhow.

Ron let go of Terry’s mouth and Terry attacked Ron’s neck, drawing helpless sounds that I’d never heard before from Ron’s mouth. “Terry,” he said tenderly in a way he’d never, _ever_ said my name. And that was what sealed it for me, the epiphany dawning with a bitter-sweet certainty.

True, Ron could never have given me what I needed, but I was just as wrong for him, as well. And as I closed the door carefully, letting them have their privacy, their kisses and their affairs, I knew that this was the only way I could let at least one of us be happy. It didn’t mean I had to like it and I still didn’t, not one bit, but still somehow it made everything just that much easier to accept.


End file.
